Batman's Cleanup Crew
by Valkyra
Summary: Ever wonder what happens to all of Batman's stuff after a fight? What? You think the almighty-defender-of-the-night is going to stoop as low as crawling around to try and find the little gizmos in each of his gadgets?  Lots of out-of-context ideas.
1. Me

**Just a quick, drabbling one-shot. Very OC-ish, and I'll probably make a different version later on. But enjoy for now!**

* * *

You probably don't know about me.

Don't feel bad. Not many people do. In fact, most people forget they ever saw me – a seemingly ordinary, normal teenaged girl – in the first place. But that's not their fault.

That's just my power. Which makes me good at my job.

What is my job, you might ask?

Cleanup crew for Batman.

What? You think the almighty-defender-of-the-night is going to stoop as low as crawling around to try and find the little gizmos in each of his gadgets. Nuh uh. That's _my_ job.

Oh, I'm sure there are more glorious names for what I do, but that pretty much sums it up.

I pick up all his crap.

You know, the Batarangs and the Bat-rope and all those teensy tiny pieces of his broken equipment. It takes quite a while, but that's okay. I make time.

Well, not _make_ it exactly. I can freeze time. Which, I might add, helps a lot. I mean, have you ever tried to pick up microscopic little pieces of broken metal? Not the easiest thing in the world.

Yeah, I know, I have a great power that could help a lot of people. Why aren't I a heroine myself?

Because I don't _want_ to be.

It was my powers that got me thrown out of my own home and left helpless on the streets. It was my powers that made a bunch of criminals interested and try to kidnap me. It was also my powers that attracted the attention of Gotham's Dark Knight.

When I met him, he didn't try to force me to do good, like some other superheroes did. He just asked if I needed a place to stay, and then brought to his enormous mansion, where I learned the true identity of mantle of the bat.

Robin – or Tim Drake – was nice, too, though he didn't believe what I could do until I proved it to him. After that, he gave me lots of respect. But we still joke around and all. I'm friends with Barbara Gordon – Batgirl – and Dick Grayson – Nightwing – as well.

In fact, I know all the superheroes 'secret' identities in the Justice League. I'm their failsafe, in case anything goes wrong with their databanks and they need to reinstall who everyone is. Or if something happens to all of them and need to tell the families – and the world – who they really were.

It's a grim job.

I like being cleanup crew better. Every now and then, Robin will join me, and we'll just talk as we pick up the broken pieces from Batman's last fight. Robin will tell me the thrilling details and I'll nod and smile and listen, because we both know I'll never join in that way of life.

And Robin's okay with that. Batman's okay with that. Most of the Justice League is okay with that.

Even if the only reason is because they don't want me to blab all their secrets.

So I stay out of the fighting, and away from the action. Not that I haven't met my fair share of criminals, mind you. I think I might've met them all.

The Joker's pretty much insane, but I think, deep down, he is – or was – a nice guy. I'm sure he does have some feelings for Harley Quinn, but he's in denial.

But the Joker's main girl sure isn't. Harley's a real sweetheart. She knows what she does is wrong, but she's too much in love with the Joker to try and stop him. I've told Batman that, and he understands. He doesn't treat her too harshly anymore. So she's nicer to me, which is good, because her hyenas are fun to play with.

The Penguin, well, he's just cranky because he's broke. He just wants to go home, I think, and be with his birds, but he needs cash to do that, and he's too spoiled to work. So he's resorted to stealing. He told me once that he regrets ever starting, because now he's in too much trouble to ever stop.

Clayface is just really confused. I do know that he isn't really bad – just undecided. He told me once he didn't know who he was anymore. He's had so many faces and been so many people and lived so many lives that he can't tell the difference anymore. I've tried to help him so many times that finally Batman told me to 'leave the poor creature alone, that there's nothing to be done for him'. But I haven't stopped looking.

Catwoman, on the other hand, knows _exactly_ what she wants, or at least what she _thinks_ she wants. Right now, all she's after are jewels, but I know what she's really looking for is Batman, even if he is currently taken by Wonder Woman. Whenever I mention that she flies into a hissy fit, but usually, she's very nice to me. Even lets me cat-sit her favorite pets whenever she went out of town. Of course, I know her identity, too. I think Batman also knows, but I haven't spilled the beans, and neither will he.

Poison Ivy is, as her name suggests, deceptively evil. She has this warped sense on how to change the world, and we argue about it a lot. But we're good friends. I water her plants while she's locked up. I have a key to her house and everything.

I think the nicest villain I've met is Killer Croc, which is ironic because, well, he's a mutated killer crocodile. He' just looking for a cure right now, but I don't think there is one, and I suspect he knows that too. So he drowns his sorrows by stealing. I visit him every so often, freezing time to give us a chance to talk, about the world and the stars and what would have to be done to make this all a better place. I know that Batman doesn't like it, but he's never pressed the matter with me, and that's fine. I'd never let any villain out of jail. If there is one thing I have faith in, it's justice.

Surprisingly, most of the villains have that same line of thought.

And _that's_ what makes the League nervous. The fact that I know so many of the enemy and the allies personally, and share the same ideals with both.

It's the _real_ reason they don't force me to do anything that I don't want to. I know too much and posses such power, I could, quite possibly, destroy the world.

But I'm not _stupid_.

I may not be a hero, but I'm not a villain, either.

I'm Batman's cleanup crew.

And I like it that way.


	2. Croc

**Well, by popular demand, here is another installment in this little fic. I was overjoyed by the good reviews, and decided to take the advice given and expand it a little. **

**And I've also realized (rather sheepishly, I might add) that my characterization of Croc is a little... out of character. To be fair, later in the comics, Croc does become desperate for a cure for his accelerated disease, so I decided to twist it this way. Meh. (And to be honest, I've always liked the look of the Killer Croc in The Batman series, not his lumpy gray appearance from the original series of Batman. But's that's in the cartoons, so...)**

**I'm rambling. Anyways, please enjoy!**

* * *

I don't believe in fate, or destiny, or pre-destination. And coincidences? Please. Things just are. We're born, we live, we die. We are.

But I do believe in the human ability to change things for the better. That's something that's in all of us – even those who might seem to be intent on doing evil.

Maybe it comes from spending time with Killer Croc.

He's changed, he really has. He used to be a full-time crook, stealing just to keep himself sane. And then something changed; I don't know what it was, but he's different now. He wants to be normal, and while I don't know if it's possible, I've helped him out in any way I can. And one of those ways is my weekly visits.

I duck past the guard with a smile, tapping into the stream of time and cutting it off gently. This will give me a few hours before damage to time becomes a serious problem.

Inside his cell, Croc is waiting. His time has stalled, as well, until I prod his stream and let it flow again. He blinks as he adjusts to the change, and then he grins toothily.

"Hello, Croc," I say, returning the smile.

"Hey. How've ya been?" he asks as he emerges from the water. His cell looks like it should really belong in a zoo more than a prison, and I try not to let the thought irk me. Croc likes it, and I stay out of the issue.

I arrange myself outside his cell, pulling the sack lunch from my bag along with several of his favorite books. "Good. I brought your favorites – Emerson and Mark Twain."

Croc's eyes light up eagerly as he approaches the barred walls. "That's great! But what's in the bag?" he motions towards it with his snout, curiosity clear on his reptilian features.

I laugh and pull the sandwiches from the paper sack. "Tuna." I laugh again at the delight in his face, and slide them through the bars. I've brought enough even for Croc's monstrous appetite – something he apologizes every now and then for, but I always shrug off. Tuna is one of the few things that both he and I can eat, and sharing a meal makes Croc feel normal again, and that's something I'm not going to deny him.

While he tries to eat his pile of sandwiches slowly, I tell him about the week and what's been happening on the outside. He listens as I talk about Joker and Harley's latest fight, about the most recent alien invasion attempt, about the most shocking political scandals. He listens intently as I recall my latest encounter with the Justice League, and nods as I try to remember everything that happened in the most recent episode of his favorite television show.

Eventually he ends up curled against the cage wall, and I with my back to him, sharing warmth through the cell bars as I read to him from _Tom Sawyer_ and _The Over-Soul_. And slowly the feeling of full-bellies and warmth overtake the both of us, and we slip into an easy slumber.

It's a refreshing nap, but I'm easily shaken out of it by a gentle gloved hand. Blinking, I gaze up at the cowled shadow, my breath shuddering a little with disappointment. I turn and spot Croc, who's back in the water and watching the Dark Knight of Gotham silently. I smile and wave and get a nod in return before I gather up my things and follow Batman out the door. I listen to it click shut before I turn to the Caped Crusader.

"Sorry."

He just looks at me. "You shouldn't have fallen asleep."

"I know." I have the decency to look sheepish. Me falling asleep means that any control I have over the time stream falters, and time flows on again.

"The guards found you asleep in there. You're lucky they decided to call it into the domestic police on an open channel."

I nod, but can't help adding, "There's no such thing as luck."

"Mm."

And we fall into silence, and I interpret his last words as an agreement. Because, really, there is no such thing as luck. If there was, then a child named Waylon James wouldn't have been born with a disfiguring mutation, and a man wouldn't have emerged from a chemical fall murderously insane, and a little boy's parents wouldn't have been shot to death in an alleyway.

There's no such thing as luck.

Things just are.


End file.
